Split Pea Soup Memories

Split Pea Soup

Rich in memory are those places from the past that can never be revisited. -Rilke

Every Saturday, pretty much religiously, throughout childhood and my more formative teenage years, I would go grocery shopping with my mom and dad. Mom would leave the house to start her day of work at the bakery at around 6:30am and she finished her shift at 1pm. Full of flour, and wearing a Bread Box smock or a John’s Bakery three button polo shirt, depending upon where she worked, she would come barreling out of said bakery bearing loaves of bread, cookies, and conchas.

Conchas: A Mexican, shell shaped sweet bread topped with sugar paste. If I only knew then that the concha would shape my life as it known today, but that’s another story.  

As dad drove from Ditmas Park over to Bensonhurst, where our grocery shopping tour would begin, I sat in the backseat of our mini-van and, one by one, I removed the sugar paste dough patches from the top of the sweet roll my mother gave me. After 20 minutes, the roll was naked, stripped bare of it’s sugary coating with remnants of sugar deposited in the bottom of the brown paper bag. I would proudly hold the naked sweet bread, I liked the bread separate of its sugar coating; and took large, mouth full bites until I was done. After this ceremonious de-sugaring and eating of the plain bread, nothing remained but the sugar at the bottom of the brown paper bag. And, as we drove, I would lick my pointer finger and take it for a sugar dip until I was done. By the time the sugar was gone, my finger pruny and wilted, we usually had arrived at the first destination.

We traveled from the fruit and vegetable stands on Ave. U to 14th Ave. and 18th Ave. to make individual stops for pastas, bread (because we needed more bread) and dad’s coffee. Queen Ann Ravioli, Pastosa Ravioli - it’s all melded in my mind in one fantastic flour based blur. There were also stops for meat and fish, all purchased at separate stores.

And after all of the running around, climbing in and out of the ‘91 Plymouth Voyager, one lone concha was not holding me over. Shopping with my mom was intense. My mother likes order, routine, lists and getting things done quickly, so climbing in and out of the mini-van and carrying grocery bags in the pouring rain was aerobic and quite athletic for my very tired, very chubby appendages and frame that were, essentially, thriving on sugared bread. It was on these shopping trips that I realized grocery shopping was sport for my mother, not leisurely or an act to indulge in, but pure work.

By 3:30pm I was exhausted. We moved in and out of stores in two and a half hours, weaving, wheeling and my mother meal planning out loud. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast at 5:30am and I often wondered, “How does she do this? She can’t be real, she’s a machine.” She was running on hot buttered semolina toast and a mug of milk tea for about 10 hours. She rarely to never ate during work hours, and she didn’t even touch a concha on our car ride from store to store. I didn’t think this was normal. Honestly, I still have trouble believing this was normal. My mother worked, and still works, like a machine.

Just when I would hit my hunger wall, Dad must have hit his too, and he would pull into the parking lot at Petrina’s Diner. It was then that I knew, I would be sated. Why? Saturday was split pea soup day at Petrina’s, and I could taste a cup, or a bowl of pea soup the moment we pulled into that parking lot. As my dad effortlessly rolled the Voyager into a diagonal lined parking space, I began salivating. My Petrina’s Diner Pavlovian Pea Soup Response. My mom, dad and myself, would sit - us 3 - at small table in the center of the diner. I rarely had time alone with them, which was my only reason for attending these Saturday sporting events. Well, the concha and pea soup helped. But in this moment of quiet, as I sat between my mother and father, I wouldn’t have to withstand mean comments about my weight from my grandfather; we simply ate our prized bowls of Petrina’s pea soup in a silence that was peaceful and holy. After this we’d make a few more stops on the way back to Canarsie. My dad would play Italian music and move his hands on the steering wheel to the beat of the songs. Sometimes his left hand would sit on the drivers side door and he would tap it, the sound of his wedding band making music too. It was in these moments that I was filled with love. But, it was all over when we pulled into our long, black top, paved driveway because fun and digestion were over. Then next athletic event was upcoming: hauling the grocery bags out of the car and up our apartment stairs. I imagined the pea soup gave me special chubby appendage powers to get through to this victory. It was a fight to the finish, but I always helped get the job done. For the next few hours until dinner, I’d help my mom put away the groceries and then watch her cook. Our black and white tube TV buzzed with ice skating, mom lyrically moved about the kitchen to what seemed a fast, salsa like pace. She never stopped moving.

Whenever I eat split pea soup, I feel like a kid again. Maybe it’s silly , but I imagine myself in a cotton turtleneck, sweatpants and LA Gears - undoubtedly my Saturday best. The other night, some 35 years later, I sat down to have a bowl of pea soup at my parents kitchen table. So much has changed, but somehow it still felt peaceful, holy and even more special now.

Split Pea Soup

1 bag of green split peas
1 T. olive oil
8 oz. of bacon, ham steak or pancetta, cut into bite sized pieces
2 large onions, diced
2 cloves of garlic, minced
5 medium carrots, cut into small/medium sized rounds
5 stalks of celery, diced
8-10 c. water
3 dried bay leaves
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 

—Place a large cast iron pot or stock pot over a medium flame and add butter, olive oil and bacon
—Cook for 10 minutes, add onions, carrots and garlic and saute for an additional 10-12 minutes   
—Add peas and coat with vegetables and bacon
—Add water, and bay leaves and bring to a boil, lower heat and let simmer with the cover on until peas are completely broken down - about 1 hour - and add salt and pepper 
—Remove bay leaves upon serving
—Eat with hot, with buttery croutons, in tiny cups, and pretend you’re young again